You Can Live With That
by an-angel-in-hell
Summary: ‘This isn’t what you want. But if it’s all you’re ever gonna get, then you guess you can live with that.’ Seiner.


You Can Live With That

Summary: 'This isn't what you want. But if it's all you're ever gonna get, then you guess you can live with that.' Seiner.

Disclaimer: Checked to see if it was mine. It wasn't.

-

You don't hate him- not really.

You say you do. At the age of eight you hate a lot of things- like multiplication and leafy vegetables- but the truth is that you don't even dislike him that much.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly what it is. He's one of the only ones who can match you at Struggle, but he isn't _the_ only one. He and his friends are fun to annoy, but not that much more so than anybody else.

It's something about _him_. The way he reacts to you, how he always tries to give as good as he gets. He won't just roll over and give you his lunch munny like all the other kids. He puts up a fight, and sometimes Roxas helps him, so you get Rai to hold Roxas off while you focus on him. And you take his munny every time; Roxas' too, but he never gives up. He never stops fighting.

Your teachers talk about respect a lot. They say you should respect your parents and your elders and your peers. When they describe exactly what respect is, you don't get it- not until that day at recess when you corner him and Roxas behind the jungle gym. He looks you straight in the eye and insists that he's not scared of you.

He puts up even more of a fight that day. Rai takes care of Roxas like usual, leaving you to deal with him. The two of you tussle and you end up giving him a black eye. At the end of recess when you're lining up with your class you hear his teacher asking him what had happened. All he says is, _I fell._

He hadn't feared you, he'd fought to the best of his ability, and he hadn't tattled afterward. That's when you understand what your teachers have been telling you. You respect him, and you kick his butt all the harder for it from then on.

-

As you get older, you get a reputation. You get some street cred and get sassy. This is _your_ town, and you tell him you want him and his posse off the streets. He puts up a fight like always, and finally you allow him and his gang the sanctuary of their Usual Spot because kicking his ass every day is starting to get just a little bit old- and because that respect is still there, and at this age you're old enough that physical violence no longer feels like an adequate way of expressing it.

People start looking at you with awe, or fear, or even loathing. You wait to see which of them he will choose. But he's a nonconformist, a rebel. You don't intimidate him at all. He still isn't scared of you, and you certainly don't impress him.

Or do you? He starts acting weird when you get close. At first you figure it's habit- the two of you have been fighting almost all your lives. But when you come to school one day in a sleeveless hoodie and too-small t-shirt, it's not only the girls who stare- he does too. Over time you develop your outfit of sleeveless coat and belly vest. He stops staring, or at least stops being so overt about it.

-

At first, it's just another way to tease him. You start getting into his personal space on a regular basis. It's not long until he snaps and yells in your face. His lips are less than an inch away from yours, and it's then that you realize you've been staring at him, too.

So you punch him. You don't think about it. You freak, thinking that this means you _like_ him or something, and the next thing you know your fist is flying and he's stumbling away.

He's bent over, and as you cautiously approach him he headbutts you in the stomach. You groan and let out a swear.

Soon it's a full-on fistfight, and although you're each giving as good as you get, neither of you is actually trying to _hurt_ the other. After a few minutes you're both panting, out of breath. You glare at each other.

You're not sure who moves first- you're just suddenly kissing. He's fighting for control; you fight back harder, and he _submits._

You're in your glory. You feel like you were fucking made to have him surrender to you. You pull away and tell him, _You're coming with me,_ in the same way you used to tell him to give you his lunch munny.

Of course he tries to fight, but you just grab his arm and haul him down the alleyway. You walk a few blocks before reaching your apartment. Once there, you climb the stairs and unlock the door, shoving him inside and closing it behind you.

He pins you to the door and starts fucking _devouring_ your mouth. Again you fight for dominance as you drag him to your bedroom and throw him on the bed. He seems to realize what he's gotten himself into and moves away, but you get on top of him and try to cease his protests with another fierce kiss.

You don't want to force him. You _want_ to make sure he's okay with this. But if you ask him, _Do you want this?_ you know he'll say, _No_, no matter what he truly wants.

So you shift your weight until you're only half lying on him. You're still pinning him down and while he'd have to fight to get away, he still _could_. You're sure he knows this, and he does struggle for a bit. He doesn't use his full strength, though, and after a moment he stills.

You understand then. He has to fight you; his pride demands it. But if you make it _almost_ impossible for him to get away, he'll _almost_ do it. Your force gives him an excuse to give in.

And this way, you can get what you both want.

He starts grinding against you. You can feel his erection digging into your hip and you move so that it's brushing yours. You move against each other, picking up speed.

You want to slow down, but you can't; you know he won't let you. Something aches in your chest, and you realize that you want to fucking _make love_ to him. You don't know what this means.

You don't know if you care.

The two of you keep thrusting against each other. You wish you could take a moment to get your clothes off, and his. You want to see him.

But he has his arms wrapped around your neck and all you can do is look down at him. His eyes are closed, face scrunched up like he's concentrating on something, breath coming in pants.

You wish his deep brown eyes were open. You want to see him looking back at you.

Hell, you just want _him_. You guess you have for a while. But as much as you want it, you don't want it to be like this.

But you don't stop, _can't_ stop, because although this isn't what you want there is no question of refusing it. It occurs to you that this might be the most of him you'll ever get.

A few minutes later you've both come in your pants. You want to grab him, crush him to you. You want to never let him go, to claim him, to make him yours and ensure that everyone fucking knows it.

Instead, you lie lazily watching him as he straightens himself out and walks out of your room.

-

It becomes a reoccurring thing. One of you starts a fight, and he lets you win so you'll drag him back to your place. Usually you're able to get at least some of his clothes off. Most of the time you just press your erections together and stroke each other to completion, but sometimes he lets you suck him off. He won't return the favor until one day when you manage to get him into a sixty-nine. That proves to be the only circumstance under which he'll do so.

He rarely says more than a few words. He barely even moans. He won't let you talk either, shutting you up with a kiss if you try.

One day you're sucking his cock when you get an idea. You move to lick his balls, staying there for a while because you love the way he squirms.

When your tongue touches his hole he jumps. He says your name warningly. You don't stop, but you feel a little regretful. You've imagined hearing your name from him under these circumstances, and it isn't supposed to sound like that.

You lick around the outside of his entrance. When you press your tongue inside, he groans.

-

It's a while before he lets you rim him again, but he _does_ allow it. You've done so several times before you try pressing a spit-slicked finger into him.

He stiffens and tries to pull away. You hold him down, waiting to see if he'll break your grip, but he doesn't. You know by now that that's his way of giving consent.

You slide your finger inside of him. He grimaces and wiggles in discomfort. You give him a second to get used to the intrusion, then crook your finger slightly, searching for the spot.

He lets out a _Fuck!_ when you brush his prostate. You remove your finger, spit on it again, and add another. He moans.

-

You buy some lube and soon he's letting you finger-fuck him almost every time. You're both stripping completely by now, often beginning to tear each other's clothes off as soon as you get inside.

It's the second time he's let you get three fingers inside when you decide to take a gamble. You pull your fingers out, eliciting a noise of protest from him. Then you put all your weight on one hand. It's the one you're using to hold down his shoulder, and he glares at you. You reach for something on the nightstand and sit up so you're kneeling between his spread legs.

_Your choice,_ you tell him, holding up the condom.

His eyes widen, but he says nothing, just bites his lip and looks away. _No,_ he says in a tone that utterly lacks conviction.

You hope you're right in your guess of what he's trying to tell you. _What if that's not what I want to hear?_ you ask, moving to hold him down again.

He looks up at you, confirmation in his eyes. He makes a couple feeble attempts to jerk away, and you know he's telling you that he wants this.

Still, you feel uncomfortable. You've always known that what you're doing could never be considered rape, because he'd never told you that he didn't want it. But now… What if you're wrong about what you think he wants? What if he decides that he hates you again and goes running to the cops?

You don't care. You want this. You just wish you could be absolutely sure that he does, too. You wish he felt comfortable enough with you to say _Yes, _to say, _I want this; I want you._

You put the condom on, add lube, and position yourself. You lock eyes with him and don't look away as you slowly slide in. He winces and grits his teeth, but never breaks your gaze.

Soon you're completely inside of him. You let your head fall down onto his shoulder, and when you exhale, his name is on your breath.

When his breathing evens out you start to move. You've done this before, although you don't think he has. That makes you glad. You want to be the first to show him this kind of pleasure.

Soon you've got him gasping and writhing beneath you. He moans your name, and you smile because it's even better than what you'd imagined.

You come first. You pull out, remove the condom, and suck him off until he spills in your mouth. You swallow.

You collapse on the bed next to him. His eyes are drifting shut, lip starting to swell from a blow you'd landed during the fight that preceded this. He'd instigated it this time.

It's late, and he's obviously tired. You tell him he can sleep here tonight if he wants to. It's not the right thing to say. He replies that he wants no such thing and starts to get up.

Your heart wrenches at the thought of him leaving you, so you pull him back down, moving so you're laying against him, arms holding him to you.

_I don't want you to leave,_ your actions say.

He struggles, and you don't know whether or not it's genuine. You don't relax your grip for fear it is. For once you're holding him tightly, too tight for him to get away- because you couldn't take it if he did.

He stills, and you smile. He's agreed to stay.

This isn't what you want. But if it's all you're ever gonna get, then you guess you can live with that.

-

End.


End file.
